Haunted
by SilverKnight
Summary: Batman and Deadman...chat. A small, hastily written companion piece to Dead Reckoning.


I'm a sucker for angst, what can I say? Either way, this is a small companion piece to the eppy "Dead Reckoning", which I only wrote up because apparently TimmCo isn't going to do anything with the whole 'Bats offed somebody' angle. Pity. Anywho.

Disclaimer: Justice League Unlimited is propery of WB; I intend no infringement and am making no profit off of this.

_**Haunted  
**__By: SilverKnight_

Batman had never felt dirtier in his life.

He stormed into the Batcave as if the fires of Hell travelled in his wake, his torn cape whipping behind him angrily. The resident bats squawked and fled into their favored perches among the gnarled stalactites as he glared down at his relatively unmarred gloves. Unbidden, he recalled how the gun's cool steel pressed against his palm, and with a quiet hiss, he ripped them off and tossed them aside. He knew the gesture was useless. The gun, the _deed_, had sullied more than simply the thick weave of his glove. It seeped into his skin, into his veins, pumping through his system and infesting more of him as time went by.

Kent, that idiot, tried to reason with him; assure him that it wasn't his fault that Devil Ray was killed, even though _he_ pulled the trigger. Shot. Dead. Murdered. His body, his fault; there was no other conclusion.

No. No, the blame lied upon one other; Boston Brand.

Another soft hiss escaped his tightly clenched teeth as he planted his bare hands onto the equally cold computer console--_'the gun's cool steel pressed against his palm'_--and leaned heavily onto them. Softly, as the Batcomputer hummed contentedly, he heard the tapping of perfectly shined dress shoes against the Cave's stone steps. He sighed deeply, his head drooping that much more. How could he ever explain, ever hope to convey the _wrongness_ of it all?

Batman, using a gun.

Batman, killing a man. _Killing_.

Who was actually behind the wheel at the time was irrelevant.

"Ah, good evening, Master Bruce," Alfred chimed happily, lightly placing his antique porcelain tea-set onto the edge of the terminal; ever the proper gentleman. How could he possibly understand? "Dare I ask why I recently forayed into the footsteps of a primate?"

He was almost tempted to smile. Age had never dulled Alfred's wit, nor his senses. He _had_ to understand. "Grodd," he replied begrudgingly.

The older man nodded crisply, plucking up the pearl-colored pot and gracefully pouring some of the steaming brown liquid into one of the cups. "I see. I take it that, since I am no longer capable of cleaning two sets of dishes at once, Mr. Grodd's plans were successfully deterred?"

"Not without cost," he intoned dully, hesitating long enough to shove back his nausea. His fingers curled against the metal console--_'cool steel pressed against his palm'_; no, _no_--as he matter-of-factly stated, "I killed a man." The confession only served to make the act more real, and thusly, more horrifying.

He was a murderer.

The porcelain tea-pot rattled loudly as Alfred fumbled so uncharacteristically with the suddenly slick utensil. "_What_, sir?"

He forced himself to keep breathing normally. "_I_ didn't do it, not consciously," he expounded in his defense, paltry as it may have been.

Alfred's gaze was uncomprehending and concerned--was that disappointment in there, also?--as he gingerly asked, "May I ask what happened, Master Bruce?"

Bruce stared blankly through the keyboard, straightening into an emotionless stance with a practiced ease. He had ran the explanation through his head a thousand times, what pieces of information he had discerned from before and after the fact churning somewhere in his chest. By all rights, they should have never added up, but never the less, there he was. A small part of him was simply lucky that he would never carry the memories of firing the gun itself, or he wasn't certain if his sanity would remain at all intact. "You remember Deadman."

"Ah yes, the ghostly fellow with the perchance for possessing others, if memory serves," Alfred said with a small nod.

Bruce grimaced. "Yes, him." His muscles tensed of their own accord. "The League had just finished shutting down Grodd's generator with his help. While distracted, one of the Legion's members must have found his way in, and..." He shook his head; a slow, dismal movement in the dim computer light. "One second I was standing there, and the next, Devil Ray was _dead_ and I was holding the smoking gun," he growled darkly, closing his eyes.

_'The cool steel pressed against his palm'_.

No. _No_.

"It wasn't _me_," he insisted emphatically through gritted teeth. "I wasn't in control, but I'm still responsible."

Dead. Killer. _Murderer_.

Amending his previous statement, he wasn't certain if his sanity would remain at all intact _now_.

"Master Bruce..." Alfred began, his perennial prim and steady voice only slightly betraying his sadness. "I'm really sorry 'bout that."

Batman's eyes shot open, a wave of indignant rage dancing up his spine as he snapped his head to the side. That he was currently staring at the face of his most trusted confidant-turned puppet only added to the tumult. "_You_."

Deadman winced and shrugged meekly, which, in the guise of Alfred, seemed sick and _wrong_ beyond all words. Yet another affront to his Mission and way of life, courtesy of Brand. "I know now's prob'ly a bad time to say somethin', knowin' how--"

"Who do you think you are?" Batman snarled, the words nearly lost amidst the harsh scratching of his deep baritone.

"I wasn't spyin' or anything," Deadman assured, holding Alfred's wrinkled hands up in defense.

He rose to his full height, towering over Alfred, and leaned forward threateningly. "I thought you said you would avenge the Master with _justice_, not revenge."

"I did!" Deadman shouted, quickly sputtering, "I mean, I wasn't _tryin_' to kill the guy! It wasn't the Master's way; I wouldn'tve gone back on 'im like that."

"And yet you did, anyway. With _me_." Batman's naked hand twitched inside the safety of his cape, the nerves remembering with uncanny accuracy what his mind wanted so badly to forget. _Killer_. "How _dare_ you use me to kill another."

"I didn't _mean_ to kill him," Deadman proclaimed, Alfred's chocolate brown eyes narrowed and imploring. "And besides, what was I s'posed to do? Let 'im shoot Wonder Woman?"

"One life for another is _not_ the answer," Batman berated hotly, the powerful tendons in his neck and back bulging beneath the weighted fabric of his cape. "You could have had me push her out of the way, or used Superman as a shield, or made Diana deflect the bullet. But you didn't. You took me and gunned him down, instead. You killed a man in _my_ name, using _my_ body; I don't care _what_ your reasoning is."

Alfred sighed, his form sagging sullenly. "Look, Bats...I'm sor--"

Abruptly, Batman whirled on his heel and stalked away into the darkness, signalling the end of the conversation.

Deadman both bristled and despaired, calling out after him, "I didn't mean to do it!"

Batman halted in the enveloping darkness, gazing at the velvet shadows that beckoned him with a strange mixture of loathing and reverence. _Murderer_. "Don't worry," he stated finally, his voice cold. "_You _never did."

**_The End_**


End file.
